


things sadder than you and I

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [184]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e13 Le Morte D'Arthur, Hair Brushing, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oblivious Merlin (Merlin), Post-Episode: s01e13 Le Morte D'Arthur, Tenderness, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 22:57:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19799479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: It’s not the first time he has felt like this, the self-destructive urge to blurt out his secret just to see what the prince will do with it, but it’s the first time he’s wanted to linger over the telling, to press his traitor’s mouth against Arthur’s skin and beg for absolution.After the events ofLe Morte d'Arthur, Merlin tends to the injured prince and reflects on the nature of their relationship.Written for the Merthur Touch Fest 2019!





	things sadder than you and I

**Author's Note:**

> [Inspired by this gorgeous piece of fan art by whimsycatcher!](https://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/119994240103)
> 
> Please do not repost elsewhere or list my fic on Goodreads (or any other similar spaces).

_There are things sadder_

_than you and I. Some people_

_do not even touch._

— Sonya Sanchez

* * *

Arthur’s bandages still need tending to when they return, and there is the small matter of Merlin’s mother to be dealt with.

“She seems to be past the worst of it,” Gwen says, looking up as the two of them walk in. She doesn’t question where they have been, or what could possibly be so important that they would leave Hunith’s side, even for a moment; not for the first time, Merlin wonders how much she knows. “Her breathing is easier, and some of the swelling has gone down.”

Gaius nods, all business even though he’s soaked to the skin. “Thank you, my dear,” he says, taking Gwen’s place beside Hunith’s bed. “It seems the new elixir I gave her must be working.”

It’s a ruse, of course, and quite a transparent one at that, but Gwen just nods and stands up, brushing at her skirts.

“Morgana will be wanting me,” she says, giving Merlin a smile and a squeeze, and as she leaves the infirmary Merlin’s mother stirs, letting out a small sigh as Gaius lays a hand on her forehead. Merlin is tired—weary down to his bones—but the prospect of her recovery buoys him a little as he heads into his room to change, the sense that not everything has been wasted; not everything has been lost.

There’s a scar on his chest where Nimueh attacked him. He runs his fingers over it. It probably should have hurt, but it looks like an old scar, the skin buckled pink and healing, impervious to sensation. Merlin covers it with several layers of clothing, just in case, but he can feel it there anyway, burning through the fabric like a talisman. Good luck, or bad luck? He’s not sure he knows anymore. 

“Where did you go?” Arthur asks when Merlin enters his chambers. He is conspicuously occupied with his sling, making sure it sits right on his bare shoulder. _I am in no way invested in the answer,_ his posture says. _Tell me everything if you want to live_ , say his eyes. “I saw you in the courtyard. You and Gaius looked like you must have ridden through a storm.”

“Herb gathering,” Merlin answers, because it’s the only response that Arthur might accept. “My mother’s ill; Gaius and I had to make some medicine for her.”

“Your mother?” This time, Arthur looks at him properly, actual concern bleeding through the studied indifference. “Is that why you’ve been acting so strangely these past few days?”

Merlin half smiles. “I’m always strange, sire,” he says, and Arthur doesn’t disagree.

Taking care of Arthur is exhausting, because Merlin can’t keep from touching him. Beneath his sleep tunic, Arthur’s body is all breath and pulse and motion, tantalisingly alive, and Merlin feels his gaze like a gravitational pull, searching for an explanation that Merlin will never give. It’s not the first time he has felt like this, the self-destructive urge to blurt out his secret just to see what the prince will do with it, but it’s the first time he’s wanted to linger over the telling, to press his traitor’s mouth against Arthur’s skin and beg for absolution.

Here is the reason he had ridden willingly to his death the day before. When considered like that, the facts become starkly evident. He would die for Arthur, yet Arthur doesn’t, can’t know who or what he is.

He’s in love with Arthur, yet Arthur doesn’t, can’t know what it is he feels.

He has to comb Arthur’s hair for him this morning, to keep his stitches from pulling. Arthur straddles a chair and leans into it, head down, exposing the bare skin at the back of his neck. Merlin dips the comb in a small bowl full of lavender water—“I like the smell, _Mer_ lin”—and draws it through the tousled locks, gently untangling the knots with his fingers.

It’s not—it’s not the _worst_ part of his duties by any means, but it’s not so much the task that he enjoys as it is the way Arthur sighs and settles, the tension in his shoulders easing under Merlin’s touch. Arthur is wound so tightly most of the time that to see him voluntarily in any sort of repose feels like a kind of secret, a badge of trust even though Arthur is far from vulnerable. He cards his fingers through the cornsilk strands, watching Arthur’s spine unfurling into a long, fluid line, listening as his breathing deepens.

“Will she be all right?” Arthur asks, his eyes closed. “Your mother.”

“She’ll live.” _All right_ is perhaps an overstatement, because Merlin has been through enough of them now to know that every near death experience brings its own kind of trauma, but she _will_ live. That much he is certain of. “Gaius is taking care of her.”

Arthur nods again, seemingly satisfied. He doesn’t ask for the particulars of Hunith’s illness, or why it would necessitate leaving the citadel before the break of dawn. Like Gwen, he has learned how not to ask the wrong questions.

Merlin picks apart another tangle, wincing when Arthur flinches beneath him, then soothes the small hurt with his hands. When there are no more knots, Merlin stops with his fingertips against Arthur’s nape, and Arthur shivers in response. It could be because Merlin’s hands are cold. It’s probably because Merlin’s hands are cold.

“I’ll wear the red tunic, I think,” Arthur says, and Merlin steps away from him, accepting the hint for what it is. “And the brown jacket. There’s a bit of a chill in the air today.”

Merlin goes where he's bid. When he returns, Arthur has reassembled himself again, spine straight and shoulders back, entirely composed and self-contained. Dressing him in armour feels superfluous sometimes, because Arthur carries his shield beneath his skin, in the way he sets himself apart from the other men—strives harder, believes deeper. Even in simple tunic and hose he looks like he could take on a whole battalion and win, injury notwithstanding.

“Will that be all, sire?” Merlin asks, and receives the nod that frees him to go about his day.

“Oh, and Merlin?”

Arthur’s hand grips his wrist, drawing him up short, and Merlin braces himself for a pointed question, for the accusation that will bring him to his knees. But—

“Get some rest,” is all Arthur says, letting go. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep on your feet.”

“Yes, Arthur,” Merlin says, bowing his head, and he leaves more than his smile behind him as he goes.

**Author's Note:**

>  _[During the Middle Ages, some believed that lavender] was an aphrodisiac and it was nicknamed the "herb of love", while others believed that applying lavender to the head of a loved one would keep them chaste._ ( [Source](https://www.bbfamilyfarm.com/lavender-cultivation-history) )
> 
> I just thought y'all should know XD


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